


A Quiet Misunderstanding

by Ecchima



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (i do), Ace Omens, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, British Sign Language, But it's what I had in mind when I wrote this, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, Not that the asexuality is a big part of this story, Selectively Mute Crowley (Good Omens), Sign Language, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), They are super married in this, i don't make the rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29684328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecchima/pseuds/Ecchima
Summary: It wasn't the first time Crowley went mute for a little while, just quietly enjoying Aziraphale's presence. It was, however, the first time it lasted more than a week...A story I wrote to share one of my headcanons about my book boys, regarding words and languages.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	A Quiet Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, it's been a WHILE hasn't it? Thank you to old followers for reading this, even after all this time and thank to YOU, reading this right now!
> 
> This is an entirely self indulgent story to share my headcanons about my book boys, which you can see [here!](https://ecchima.tumblr.com/post/641413382957924352/very-big-picture-that-i-managed-to-draw-all-in-2)

Aziraphale was settled in his favourite love-seat, surrounded by three cups of cocoa[1] a plate of freshly baked madeleines and a first edition of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice when the bell above his door rang. He looked up with a frown, ready to scare off a potential customer only to see Crowley gesticulating wildly and pulling faces, as if at a loss of words. He crossed his arms, humphed and flopped down on Aziraphale’s sofa, which had, over the centuries, become Crowley’s sofa. Not that they ever spoke about it, it was a natural occurrence, like most things between them were.

Aziraphale turned off his sense of hearing for a moment, expecting a frustrated and pillow muffled yell, before getting back to his reading. It wouldn’t be the first time Crowley came around to yell his frustration out and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last either. Aziraphale had learnt over the centuries that whether or not he listened to those fits of inarticulate noises and yells did not matter, as Crowley rarely made any sense in those moments.

It felt like only a few minutes when Aziraphale reached out to his mug of cocoa and he was quite surprised and disappointed to realize that, like the others, it had grown cold. He turned his hearing back on, tutted at the mug and glanced over at Crowley. His friend appeared to have calmed down and repositioned himself in one of his customary sprawls,[2] staring at Aziraphale’s ceiling without really seeing it. He looked rather tired, poor thing, he must have had an encounter with a fellow demon or worse, a commendation.

Aziraphale wiggled out of his love-seat, toed his comfortable slippers on and quietly slipped into his kitchenette to make two more cups of cocoa. He had a stern talk to his mugs, trying to convince them to stay warm, knowing that it wouldn’t work without a little ethereal help but unwilling to take the risk of receiving yet another strongly worded note about his frivolous use of cocoa warming miracles.

He added cinnamon and a pinch of pepper to Crowley’s mug, a splash of amaretto to his own and ambled back into the backroom. Crowley’s gaze slid upon him as he placed the mug on the little table in front of him. He smiled and gestured vaguely towards Aziraphale in a way resembling a kiss blown followed by a thumbs up but executed tiredly, without any conviction. Aziraphale smiled back at him and went back to his love-seat, sitting in the far end of it so that Crowley could join him, if he wanted to.

They spent the rest of the afternoon that way, sitting in comfortable silence together as Aziraphale read and forgot all about his cocoa again. When the light of the setting sun broke through the bookshop’s dirty windows, Crowley got up, gathered the four cold cocoa mugs, the now empty plate of madeleines and brought them all back to the kitchenette. He emerged a few minutes later with Aziraphale’s favourite duck mug, a faint scent of Earl Grey tea emanating from it.

“Thank you my dear,” Aziraphale said as Crowley placed the mug on his side table. “Are you feeling better?”

Crowley smiled and nodded, still not in the mood to talk, it would seem. He snapped his fingers, making his long black coat appear on his shoulders and waved goodbye. Aziraphale waved back and barely noticed the bookshop’s bell ringing as he picked his reading back up.

It happened, sometimes, for Crowley to not utter a single word. He would simply hang around Aziraphale for a day or two, nod or shake his head as needed, enjoying each other’s presence knowing that he didn’t need to lie through his teeth and pretend to be something he wasn’t. Then it would pass, and he would start to ramble on again. He never bothered to explain those wordless moods of his so Aziraphale never asked.

A week passed, then two, and Crowley remained silent. Aziraphale tried to ask him what was wrong but everytime he did, Crowley grimaced, gesticulated wildly, and said nothing.

A month later, Aziraphale’s worry had grown exponentially. At first, he’d worried that Crowley had been injured by another demon. It wouldn’t have been the first time but ever since an unfortunate accident in 1916, he’d come to Aziraphale for help and the angel was relieved to be able to know and patch him up the human way. He did  _ not _ miss Crowley’s bad habit of disappearing for a couple of years to quite literally lick his wounds until he could saunter back into Aziraphale’s life, as if nothing had happened.

Aziraphale still checked over Crowley’s neck one day, when he had fallen asleep on his sofa, just to make sure. The conflicting mix of relief and worry he felt when no wound was found was so obviously uncomfortable that Crowley came back with a box of chocolates from Aziraphale’s favourite shop in Switzerland the next day.

“Crowley, my dear, have you been cursed?” Aziraphale asked, after a feverish three days of research on demons and witchcraft. He owned a few satanic volumes with instructions on demon summoning, and ways to restrain them. He hadn’t found any potion or curse that could make an occult being go mute but it wasn’t an entirely incongruous idea. After all, humans liked to keep all sorts of dangerous animals as pets, it wasn’t too far fetched that some of them would have attempted owning a demon.[3]

Crowley looked at him with eyes as wide as saucers, and for one glorious second, Aziraphale thought he had finally done it, cracked the code, pierced the mystery, put the puzzle pieces together until… Crowley started howling with laughter. In fact, he laughed and whizzed so hard that a crowd of concerned passersby gathered in front of the bookshop until one of them tentatively entered to ask if they needed help. Aziraphale looked upwards and sent a silent prayer to God.

After the humans were reassured, Aziraphale locked the front door while Crowley’s laughter finally subsided. Aziraphale watched him as he rolled onto his back, where he had fallen on the floor, and the look of pure mirth he sent Aziraphale, finally smoothed the frown that had settled on the angel’s face. The soft joy in Crowley's eyes was contagious and Aziraphale found he couldn't quite keep himself from smiling back.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said as the accumulated tension left his body with a sigh, “the neighbours won’t let me hear the end of it now.”

Crowley rubbed his fist against his chest in a circular way that was starting to grow familiar, but the mirth didn’t leave his eyes as he got up from the dusty floor. Aziraphale sighed again, defeated and still having no clues why Crowley wasn’t talking anymore. He was about to turn back to his messy desk, full of hastily scribbled notes and cold cocoa mugs when Crowley gently grabbed his shoulder, and gestured very slowly for Aziraphale to look at him. He let go and used his two hands to point at himself with his thumbs, before tipping them forward in a double thumbs up, smiling. The message was clear and Aziraphale decided to set some of his worry aside, for now.

“Alright, my dear,” he smiled softly, “would you like to go try that new bakery on Frith Street?”

Even as Crowley beamed and nodded at him, Aziraphale couldn’t stop thinking about how much he missed their conversations.

Later that night, after Crowley had retired with a smile and a wave, Aziraphale settled down on his slightly too big loveseat, intending to read one of his latest acquisitions but the words kept dancing in front of his tired eyes and he found himself quite unable to focus on their meaning. A terrible sense of dread settled deep in his bones as his treacherous mind whispered to him.  _ If he hasn’t been restricted in some way, if he’s alright but still won’t talk, then it has to be a choice, doesn’t it? He doesn’t want to talk to you. _

“Oh dear…”

The next morning, after a dreadful night spent pacing in an attempt to get rid of his anxiety, a small letter appeared in a puff of sulfuric smoke on Aziraphale’s side table. It was a note in Crowley’s slithery handwriting, informing Aziraphale about an assignment he had received in Scotland and his consequential absence for the next week or so.

It wasn’t unusual, per say, that one or both of them received assignments in another part of the country.[4] It had quickly become part of their Arrangement to let each other know when they needed to move, to limit the headache of unnecessary traveling and accommodation costs. But this time, the knowledge weighted heavily on Aziraphale’s heart. Had he done something wrong? Was Crowley putting some physical distance between them now?

No, of course not, that would be ridiculous. Aziraphale shook his head, grabbed his coat and went on a long walk in an attempt to clear his head. He forgot to take his umbrella, too accustomed to Crowley bringing his own whenever they went out[5] and was surprised an hour later, when it started to rain. He debated using a miracle to stay dry but allowed himself to sit on a bench and feel miserable for a couple of hours.

When he headed back, he felt lighter. As if the rain had washed away some of his anxiety. If it was something he had done or said, he could apologize when Crowley came back. It wouldn’t be the first time their relationship had been strained, far from it. He did hope it would be the last, though.

The week during which Crowley was away felt like a century, leaving Aziraphale on edge and making him look up everytime he heard the bell above the door. So when he finally saw Crowley standing there, cheekily brandishing a tartan pair of socks at him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but give him a hug. He squeezed tight, enjoying the simple comfort of physical contact, the weird sensation of Crowley’s lack of body warmth and the smell of his cologne, leaving only the faintest sniff of brimstone and sulfur. When he finally stepped back, his hands lingered on Crowley’s waist, reluctant to let go of him entirely.

“Hello, dear boy,” he smiled, pulling him further inside, “come in, sit, there is something I want to speak with you about.”

Crowley looked puzzled but complied, moving his hands agitatedly in a confusing way, repeating the same movements over and over. Aziraphale reached out to stop them in what he hoped would come across as a reassuring gesture but made Crowley look hurt instead. He grimaced.

“My dear, you haven’t been talking to me for well over two months now and I’m afraid I might have done something wrong. I want to apologize to you if that’s the case, but I can’t do it properly if you don’t let me know what the issue is.”

The hurt on Crowley’s face grew tenfold as he wiggled his hands free of Aziraphale’s grasp before he started to gesticulate again, his hands fluttering everywhere. When he calmed down, he took Aziraphale’s hands in his and shot him a sad and soft apologetic look.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, his voice shaking, “Since you’re looking at me like that, I’m going to assume that it’s not that you don’t  _ want _ to talk to me, but rather that you  _ can’t _ . Am I correct?”

Crowley beamed at him and nodded, letting go of Aziraphale’s hands to flap his own encouragingly.

“Are you wounded in some way?”

Crowley grimaced and shook his head.

“I don’t understand!” Aziraphale exclaimed, losing his cool, “I don’t see any other reasons why you might be unable to talk anymore! You said you’re not cursed and you’re not wounded, and I heard you laugh a week ago! I just- I’m worried!” His voice cracked and he took a deep breath. He looked into Crowley’s eyes, searching for an answer that wouldn’t come and might never will.

Crowley’s face scrunched up, he looked away, then down at his hands. Took a deep breath and “...Sorry,” he said, his voice rough with disuse. “I can…” he trailed off, looking as if each word was draining all his energy, “...use my words, if you prefer.”

“No, that’s quite alright, my dear. I miss our conversations, dearly so, but please don’t force yourself on my account.” Aziraphale said, scooting over on the sofa and raising his arms in a wordless invitation.

Crowley sighed in relief and laid his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Once he was settled, he gazed up at him and brought a hand to his mouth before moving it away again in a thumbs up, like he had done so many times these past couple of months. Aziraphale smiled down at him as he brought both hands back against his heart in a swooning motion then away on each side of him in another common and familiar gesture, smiling.

Aziraphale laid one of his hands on Crowley’s head, toying with his stylish short hair. The silence around them finally felt comfortable again in the light of their mutual understanding.

In the following weeks, Aziraphale paid closer attention to Crowley and started to notice a pattern in his hand gestures. Always the same odd thumbs up as thanks, that swooning and away gesture punctuating his sentences. Because they were sentences, weren’t they? This entire time, Crowley had been talking to him, in  _ signs _ . 

As he looked, he started to recognize simple words, such as hello, please and thank you but a lot of the more complicated sentences kept evading his understanding until, finally, he asked.

“Is there a way I could learn this form of,” he paused and made a vague hand gesture, unsure of the proper term, “sign language that you use?”

Aziraphale had no words to describe the intensity and warmth in Crowley’s answering smile as he took him by the hand. They put on their coats, and Aziraphale let his friend guide him through the streets of Soho, to his first BSL lesson.

As Aziraphale learnt, he realized how blinded he had been by his own comfort and routine, he had never really been interested in languages, having been present to see most of them emerge and die. He knew, in an abstract way, that humans without the ability of verbal speech had found other ways to communicate, of course. But it wasn’t necessarily something he thought would be useful to know and learn until Crowley started using it…

Crowley, for his part, shared with Aziraphale that he’d always been interested in spoken and written languages, especially ones that are only known in small circles such as morse code or braille. He said that he had always liked humanity’s ability to innovate and come up with clever ideas that would ultimately make their life easier, may it be practical or for comfort. Of course, Aziraphale already knew this, he had been there from the Beginning as well, watching. He’d seen how his friend’s eyes lit up every time a human impressed him, when they finally understood something, after months or years of testing and researching.[6] However, he hadn’t known that Crowley had picked up polari and sign language from them, it wasn’t like they really needed either…

“I know we technically don’t,” Crowley signed to him, “but you have to agree it’s clever, to come up with a whole vocabulary of signs to communicate, all on their own! Did you know it’s not international? Because humans came up with it as they needed, it wasn’t one guy who decided and wrote the rules, like, like… Computers! Or Maths! They just started using it like they started using english! Some countries even have more than one!”

Aziraphale smiled into his glass of Pinot Noir, signing back to slow down.

About a month later, as they were making their way through St James Park, Crowley was talking animatedly about a new “evil” plan he had been thinking about, something involving phones, Azirapahle thought. He wasn’t really listening to him, only enjoying the lovely tone of his voice. He had missed this, as it was hard for him to have a conversation in sign language while walking. If he had to be quite honest, he had missed his friend’s voice too.

As he searched his pockets for the peas he had intended to feed the ducks, Azirapahle noticed someone who looked quite lost.

“Do you need help, dear?” He asked, after catching up to them. But they didn’t react.

Crowley waved a hand in front of them and they jumped, signing a quick apology. Crowley signed back, too fast for Aziraphale to catch everything, even though he was getting quite used to it by now. He gave them directions to the nearest underground station and, when they waved each other goodbye, Aziraphale signed “Have a good day!”

They beamed at him as they signed “you too!” and Aziraphale realised that perhaps, he should have learnt sooner.

* * *

[1] Two of which had grown cold and the third one was well on its way.    
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[2] It had been quite a few millennia since he had seen Crowley sit properly outside of public spaces and was quite pleased to be the only one the demon was comfortable enough around to show this aspect of his personality.   
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[3] It was, however, pointless to try as even the most stupid of demons knew how to bargain well enough to avoid such situations. Beelzebub had made sure of that.   
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[4] Or the world, as both Above and Below had never quite gotten the hang on distances and geography, nor did they care to learn it.   
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[5] Aziraphale may or may not have been guilty of using a rather frivolous miracle to make it rain, sometimes. Let’s just say that London didn’t always have such wet weather.   
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[6] Aziraphale especially remembered the ecstatic look on Crowley’s face on the thirteenth of September 1959, when the Sovietic Union’s spacecraft had successfully landed on the moon. They sadly missed the landing of Apollo 11 ten years later, Crowley had sulked and lamented for months.   
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**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! If you're interested in BSL, I used [Jessica Kellgren-Fozard's youtube channel](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCDdi0yUyGW1PKzYXaIACnuA) as well as [Commanding Hands!](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCXxKBE2YQAxzxrdYgaytyGA)


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